A Vein of Deceit (43 page)

‘Meanwhile,’ added Tesdale, ‘you have the evidence to confront him, so make him pay you back and then dismiss him. Meanwhile,
we will all learn from this and make sure it never happens again.’

‘It is good advice, Matt,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Be more vigilant in future, but do not hold anyone but Risleye responsible
for what
he
has done.’

‘I am sorry to change the subject,’ said Tesdale tentatively. ‘But Isnard sent word: he was very drunk last night and needs
a tonic. Shall Valence make it and take it to him?’

‘
You
do it,’ ordered Langelee, while Valence rolled his eyes at his classmate’s brazen idleness. He held up a thick forefinger
when Tesdale started to object. ‘No excuses. I am tired of seeing you foist your duties on to your friends, and unless you
change your ways, you can look for another College.’

Bartholomew handed over the key to the storeroom and watched his students leave, his thoughts in chaos. It was
all very well for Valence and Tesdale to dismiss so blithely the actions of a classmate they had never liked, but Risleye’s
actions would bother their master for a long time to come.

‘I need to find him,’ he said, trying to imagine which stables Risleye might have elected to visit. ‘I cannot just wait here
for him to show up.’

‘You can – and you should,’ said Michael. ‘You run the risk of missing him if you dash off on a wild goose chase. He will
not be long. Just be patient.’

‘Clippesby has not been himself since you left,’ said Langelee, deciding the physician needed a diversion. ‘Wynewyk’s treachery
hit him hard, and I have never seen him so unhappy. He has not even found solace in his animals.’

Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. Clippesby did not forsake his furred and feathered friends lightly, and when he did, there
was usually something seriously wrong. ‘Has he been … unwell?’

‘You mean has he been more lunatic than usual,’ translated Langelee. ‘No – quite the reverse, in fact. He seems as sane as
any of us, except when you actually listen to what he is saying. Then you realise he is raving. He keeps claiming that Wynewyk
took poison because he was unable to live with his remorse.’

‘Fortunately, we know that is untrue,’ said Michael. ‘Wynewyk made these business arrangements in good faith, and we were
wrong to have suspected him of dishonesty.’

‘Yes and no,’ said Langelee. ‘He may not have stolen from us, but he had no right to give our money to these Suffolk lords,
no matter what the returns. It has left us all but destitute – and we will remain destitute until we have these pigs, wood
and coal. I am not forgetting that he tried to kill me, either. He may be innocent of cheating, but he was definitely guilty
of that.’

‘He took Kelyng to Suffolk, too,’ added Michael. ‘And must have known some harm had befallen the lad when he failed to return
from the mine. Then to pretend to be worried … it beggars belief!’

‘Are you sure it was Wynewyk who tried to kill you, Master?’ asked Agatha conversationally. ‘Only Idoma Gosse likes to ambush
men in the dead of night. Incidentally, I heard her brother bragging the other day in the Cardinal’s Cap. He claims to be
on the verge of acquiring wealth that will see him established in the finest house in Cambridge.’

‘Did he say how?’ asked Michael nervously.

‘No,’ replied Agatha. ‘But you can be sure it will not be legal.’

‘Arrest him, Brother,’ said Langelee promptly. ‘Now. Today. Before he earns these riches.’

‘I shall,’ vowed Michael. He turned to Agatha. ‘So you had better tell me exactly what you overheard in the Cardinal’s Cap.’

‘Unfortunately, he declined to give details, and none of us liked to press him,’ replied the laundress apologetically. ‘Well,
he said one thing, but I do not see how it can be relevant.’

‘What?’ demanded Michael.

‘He said his fortune is closely tied to that of a Fellow, and that they have great plans together.’

‘Not Wynewyk?’ asked Langelee heavily.

‘No. It is someone from King’s Hall – and from his description, I would say it is Paxtone.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael, standing wearily. ‘I thought I would have a few quiet moments to study my Blood Relic texts, but
it seems I must go to interrogate King’s Hall scholars instead.’

‘You planned to
study
?’ asked Langelee incredulously. ‘I thought you would have been deploying your troops to
hunt down Gosse. Or, if he proves elusive, to prevent him from doing any mischief during this tiresome debate.’

‘Junior Proctor Cleydon has that in hand,’ said Michael coolly. He disliked it when people questioned the way he ran his affairs.
‘I trust him.’

‘Then you can help me read Margery’s documents,’ said Langelee, waving the monk back down again. ‘You volunteered me as arbitrator,
so it is only fair that you help me prepare, and you can talk to King’s Hall when we have finished. Meanwhile, you can visit
Clippesby, Bartholomew. It will take your mind off Risleye – until he comes home.’

Bartholomew found the Dominican in his room. Clippesby was reading a book on Blood Relics, and the physician sincerely hoped
he did not intend to take part in the debate: he might claim animal sources to prove his points, and lead the rest of the
University to assume Michaelhouse was full of lunatics.

‘Langelee said you have concerns about Wynewyk,’ said Bartholomew, going to stand by the window so that he would see Risleye
return. His thoughts were more on his student than his colleague.

‘The Master does not believe me,’ said the Dominican softly. ‘But I
know
Wynewyk poisoned himself deliberately because he was ashamed of what he had done.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Bartholomew gently, hearing the distress in his friend’s voice and turning to face him. ‘Wynewyk was
not dishonest – we proved it in Suffolk. He made some unorthodox arrangements, but none of them were detrimental to the College.’

‘I wish that were true,’ said Clippesby fervently. ‘I really do. But it is not, and I can prove it.’

Bartholomew frowned. It was rare that Clippesby did not
bring animals into a discussion, and the grave, intense expression on his face was unnerving.

‘Langelee charged me with packing up Wynewyk’s personal effects,’ Clippesby went on. ‘I was going through a box of documents,
throwing away laundry lists and the like, when I found a letter from his father. It reminded his son never to eat nuts, because
he had an unusually strong reaction to them. And it said never to let a poultice of foxglove near an open wound for the same
reason.’

‘I knew about the nuts,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Meanwhile, foxglove is a potent herb, and if Wynewyk was sensitive to it, then
even a small dose might have brought about his death. However, it is rarely prescribed for—’

‘I have been thinking hard about his manner of death, trying to recall all that happened,’ interrupted Clippesby. ‘And my
ponderings told me that he consumed
four
pieces of cake. Obviously, I did not realise then that he had an aversion to nuts, or I would have stopped him. I remember
him gagging several times, but he did not stop eating.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Tesdale says he drank more than usual, which may have made him incautious. However, there was no foxglove—’

‘There
was
foxglove!’ Clippesby spoke sharply. ‘I use it to kill the fleas I catch from the hedgehog, so I am familiar with its smell.
When I was cleaning up the hall after Wynewyk’s body had been taken away, I found an empty pot of it. It meant nothing to
me at the time, so I threw it away. But then I discovered the letter from Wynewyk’s father, and all became clear.’

It was not clear to Bartholomew, and he struggled to understand what Clippesby was telling him.

‘There is more,’ said Clippesby, when the physician made
no reply. ‘I told you about the copies of letters written to powerful men, offering to sell them precious stones. Do you
remember? We decided he did not have any, so we dismissed the matter. But he did.’

‘Did what?’ asked Bartholomew, mind spinning.

‘He
did
own diamonds,’ said Clippesby. He reached into his purse and withdrew a handful of stones. ‘I found these under a loose floorboard
in his room. Langelee said they are just rocks.’

Bartholomew took them from him. ‘But they
are
just rocks, John. Wynewyk carried another one in his purse, and Paxtone has a whole bag of them in his room. Tesdale said
they pored over documents about stones together, so these are probably a charm against sickness. Or perhaps bad luck. But
they are not diamonds, because diamonds are smooth and shiny, and these—’

‘They are raw,’ snapped Clippesby, uncharacteristically curt. ‘Diamonds look like this in their natural state, and only appear
jewel-like when they have been cut and polished. If you do not believe me, rub one on this piece of glass. Diamonds scratch
glass, as you know.’

‘So do many other things,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Sapphires, rubies, even rock crystal.’

Clippesby slapped the glass into his hand. ‘Just do the experiment.’

Bartholomew did as he was told, and gazed at the mark the stone left behind. He looked more closely at the rock, and supposed
Clippesby might be right. He had never seen diamonds straight from the ground, so it was hardly surprising that he did not
know what they looked like.

‘I have no idea where these stones came from,’ said Clippesby quietly. ‘But the sly letters to the nobles suggest something
untoward. So, you see, no matter what you
discovered in Suffolk, I am afraid Wynewyk
was
embroiled in something shameful. And it led him to take his own life.’

Bartholomew grabbed Clippesby’s arm and hauled him across the yard, so the Dominican could tell Michael what he had surmised.
They met the monk coming from his room, having read more of the documents Margery had given them. He started to speak at the
same time as Clippesby.

‘Me first,’ insisted Michael. ‘Most of Luneday’s records are irrelevant to who should have Elyan Manor – they pertain to the
sale of pigs – but two are vital.’ He brandished them.

‘What are they?’ asked Bartholomew. He was distracted, more concerned with Risleye and Wynewyk than with Haverhill’s problems.
The door to his storeroom was open, and Tesdale was there, working on Isnard’s remedy. Bartholomew stepped inside to stare
at his empty poppy-juice jug again. The student glanced up and smiled absently at him.

‘The first is the will of Alneston – the fellow who founded the chantry and who was a past owner of Elyan Manor,’ replied
Michael. ‘In it he leaves his estate to King’s Hall, on the grounds that he disliked his children.’

‘So King’s Hall does have a valid claim?’ asked Bartholomew flatly. ‘That will please them.’

‘I have not finished. This deed was clearly written when Alneston was angry, but he later made peace with his sons and there
is a
second
will that favours them.’ The monk waved it in the air. ‘It proves King’s Hall does
not
have a claim on the manor, and I shall tell them so when I speak to Paxtone, and demand to know why he has dealings with
Osa Gosse.’

‘I thought something odd was going on in that College,’ mused Clippesby. ‘Wynewyk spent inexplicable amounts of time there,
with Paxtone and the Warden; Shropham stands accused of murder; they associate with felons; they stake dubious claims to distant
manors; and Matt tells me Paxtone owns raw diamonds, just like the ones I found hidden in Wynewyk’s room.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed – he was never quite sure what to make of Clippesby. ‘What diamonds?’

While Clippesby regaled Michael with his theory, Bartholomew’s attention wandered to his storeroom. How much time had Risleye
spent there, stealing and hiding evidence of his crimes? How many patients in desperate pain had been given water?

As his mind filled with dark thoughts, he happened to glance at Tesdale. The student was listening to Clippesby telling Michael
about the foxglove and was going through the motions of preparing the tonic for Isnard, but he had just added too much charcoal.
It took a moment for Bartholomew to recognise the curious expression that filled the young man’s face, but when he did, his
stomach lurched. It was guilt.

‘Oh, no,’ he whispered softly. ‘
You
gave Wynewyk the foxglove!’

‘What?’ asked Tesdale. He laughed his disbelief at the accusation, but not before the physician had caught the flash of panic
in his eyes.

‘You are one of few people who have access to this room,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘He asked you for foxglove and, eager to help
a man who was kind to you, you let him have it.’

Tesdale shook his head. ‘I did not give him anything. I swear!’

But Bartholomew was wise to the pedantry of students.
‘You did not give him anything,’ he repeated heavily. ‘So what did you do? Open the door and look the other way while he
took what he wanted? I thought Risleye was the thief, and you let me.’

‘But Risleye
is
the thief,’ cried Tesdale, beginning to be agitated. ‘Perhaps I did help Wynewyk once when he asked, but he did not take
the poppy juice – Risleye did. Risleye is always accusing us of stealing from him, but all the while
he
was the thief.’

Bartholomew sat heavily on the bench, and regarded Tesdale with haunted eyes. ‘Why did you not tell us you let Wynewyk in
here when we were trying to understand how he died?’ he asked, not sure whether he was more shocked by Risleye’s pilfering
or Tesdale’s complicity in a colleague’s demise. ‘It would have answered so many questions.’

‘I wanted to, but I was afraid you would expel me,’ said Tesdale, tears welling. ‘It has not been easy, wondering whether
I helped a man to suicide. I realise now that I should have refused when he asked to be allowed in, but it is easy to be wise
after the event.’

Michael was angry. ‘You are a fool, Tesdale! However, you may be able to redeem yourself.’

Bartholomew was not so sure about that, but Tesdale looked up with hope in his eyes. ‘How?’